Read Online Jacquie D'Alessandro by Who Will Take This Man - Free Book Online
Authors: Who Will Take This Man
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there isn’t a butler in all of England who knows more than he. Would you care to hear the latest?”
Philip suspected he didn’t want to know, but somehow he heard himself answering, “Of course.”
“According to Evans, who, I might add, relayed the following with an enormous amount of hemming and hawing and throat-clearing, is that Lady Sarah cried off for two reasons: One, she did not want to die from your curse, and two, even without the curse she still would have jilted you, as she had no wish to become the bride of a man who is unable to…perform his husbandly duties.”
Philip winced. “Ah. I see. Since it is impossible to conceive that any woman wouldn’t wish to marry the heir to an earldom unless for very compelling reasons, tongues are wagging with the notion that the compelling reason is I will not be able to consummate my marriage.”
“I’m afraid so. Not the sort of conjecture a man likes to have to defend himself against.” He stirred a bit of sugar into his coffee. “Have you any news of Lady Sarah?”
“Not yet, but I’ve sent ’round a note advising her of my intention to call upon her later today.” He patted his mouth with his napkin, then set the square of linen on the polished cherrywood table next to his plate. “And toward that end, I shall depart for the warehouse to continue with the unpacking of the crates.” Rising, Philip strode toward the door.
“What in God’s name are you wearing?” came his father’s outraged voice.
Philip halted and looked down at his loose-fitting, drawstring-waisted trousers. “Comfortable clothing. I’m going to be working in a warehouse, Father, not attending a ball.” With that, he exited the breakfast room. As he approached the foyer, the brass knocker sounded, and Bakari opened the door. Philip caught the sound of a familiar, throaty female voice. Her voice. The dictatorial matchmaker. He noted with some annoyance that his footsteps quickened.
“Will see if Lord Greybourne is available,” Bakari said, holding a calling card between his fingers.
“I’m available, Bakari.” He stepped around the butler and met Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s startled expression. His gaze swept over her, the details of her ensemble clicking in his mind. Peacock-blue muslin gown with matching spencer. Bonnet that framed her piquant face in a way that reminded him of a stamen surrounded by soft petals. A frown pulled down his brows. No, that didn’t sound quite right. But damn it all, she did somehow remind him of flowers. Perhaps it was her fragrance? He inhaled and instantly discarded the notion. No, she did not smell like flowers. She smelled like—he leaned a bit closer to herand inhaled again—like freshly baked cake.
No, it was her coloring, he suddenly realized, that brought flowers to mind. Her skin looked as soft as roses, her cheekbones blushed with peach, and her lips were colored with a delicate pinkish red, all colors he recalled from his mother’s formal country gardens at Ravensly Manor.
Bakari harrumphed. “Might want to invite lady in,” came his dry whisper behind him, “not gawk at her in the doorway.”
Annoyed at himself, Philip instantly stepped back. Damn. Clearly some brushing up on his manners was called for. “Please come in, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”
She inclined her head in a regal fashion and entered the foyer. “Thank you, Lord Greybourne. I apologize for calling so early, but I believe it is essential that we get a timely start. I am ready to depart whenever you are.” Her gaze flicked over his attire, and her eyes widened.
“Depart? But you’ve just arrived.” Looking pert and fresh and smelling good enough to nibble upon.
Bloody hell, where had that thought come from? Clearly it entered his head because he harbored a weakness for freshly baked cake. Yes, that’s all it was.
“I’ve come to accompany you. To help you look through the crates to locate the other half of the stone.” Her clear, aqua gaze
Philip suspected he didn’t want to know, but somehow he heard himself answering, “Of course.”
“According to Evans, who, I might add, relayed the following with an enormous amount of hemming and hawing and throat-clearing, is that Lady Sarah cried off for two reasons: One, she did not want to die from your curse, and two, even without the curse she still would have jilted you, as she had no wish to become the bride of a man who is unable to…perform his husbandly duties.”
Philip winced. “Ah. I see. Since it is impossible to conceive that any woman wouldn’t wish to marry the heir to an earldom unless for very compelling reasons, tongues are wagging with the notion that the compelling reason is I will not be able to consummate my marriage.”
“I’m afraid so. Not the sort of conjecture a man likes to have to defend himself against.” He stirred a bit of sugar into his coffee. “Have you any news of Lady Sarah?”
“Not yet, but I’ve sent ’round a note advising her of my intention to call upon her later today.” He patted his mouth with his napkin, then set the square of linen on the polished cherrywood table next to his plate. “And toward that end, I shall depart for the warehouse to continue with the unpacking of the crates.” Rising, Philip strode toward the door.
“What in God’s name are you wearing?” came his father’s outraged voice.
Philip halted and looked down at his loose-fitting, drawstring-waisted trousers. “Comfortable clothing. I’m going to be working in a warehouse, Father, not attending a ball.” With that, he exited the breakfast room. As he approached the foyer, the brass knocker sounded, and Bakari opened the door. Philip caught the sound of a familiar, throaty female voice. Her voice. The dictatorial matchmaker. He noted with some annoyance that his footsteps quickened.
“Will see if Lord Greybourne is available,” Bakari said, holding a calling card between his fingers.
“I’m available, Bakari.” He stepped around the butler and met Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s startled expression. His gaze swept over her, the details of her ensemble clicking in his mind. Peacock-blue muslin gown with matching spencer. Bonnet that framed her piquant face in a way that reminded him of a stamen surrounded by soft petals. A frown pulled down his brows. No, that didn’t sound quite right. But damn it all, she did somehow remind him of flowers. Perhaps it was her fragrance? He inhaled and instantly discarded the notion. No, she did not smell like flowers. She smelled like—he leaned a bit closer to herand inhaled again—like freshly baked cake.
No, it was her coloring, he suddenly realized, that brought flowers to mind. Her skin looked as soft as roses, her cheekbones blushed with peach, and her lips were colored with a delicate pinkish red, all colors he recalled from his mother’s formal country gardens at Ravensly Manor.
Bakari harrumphed. “Might want to invite lady in,” came his dry whisper behind him, “not gawk at her in the doorway.”
Annoyed at himself, Philip instantly stepped back. Damn. Clearly some brushing up on his manners was called for. “Please come in, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”
She inclined her head in a regal fashion and entered the foyer. “Thank you, Lord Greybourne. I apologize for calling so early, but I believe it is essential that we get a timely start. I am ready to depart whenever you are.” Her gaze flicked over his attire, and her eyes widened.
“Depart? But you’ve just arrived.” Looking pert and fresh and smelling good enough to nibble upon.
Bloody hell, where had that thought come from? Clearly it entered his head because he harbored a weakness for freshly baked cake. Yes, that’s all it was.
“I’ve come to accompany you. To help you look through the crates to locate the other half of the stone.” Her clear, aqua gaze
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